A/N: just so you guys know, there will be mentions of abuse, suicide, self harm, blood, depression, PTSD, dissociation and Christmas in this chapter. (Yes those are the things I relate the holidays with. I just,,, hate it.) But because it feels right to give a Christmas thing so, have a depressing christmas special chapter.

11 pm, December 24th. Tom sighed. All those years ago, when he was just sixteen, laying under a park bench, trying to stop himself from getting hypothermia. The memories of that night and the following morning always flooded his brain at this time of year. In fact, those memories always returned in the dark of Winter. He could feel the cold air on his skin, hear staggering footsteps of some probably doomed drunk. He swore he was laying on the ground, trying to use the minimal barrier of his thin and worn clothing to stop the freezing cold from stealing his life.

The reason he had been fighting hypothermia that night instead of huddled on his bed, trying to stay warm, was a simple one. His mother. His drug addict, alcoholic of a mother. She had taken his childhood from him. Taken the chance to live a normal and happy life from the poor boy. Tom hated her. He also felt sorry for her. He himself knew the trapping cage of alcohol and addiction. But for what she did to him there was no excuse.

He wasn't just being an overreacting teenager. Far from it. He was laying under this bench to avoid being murdered. Or at least that's what he believed.

Just two hours before his mother had gotten a knife. Her black eyes contorted into rage. She had swung it at Tom. Missing. Then swung again. Red hot pain flashed through Tom from his left shoulder. He didn't let this woman get the satisfaction of knowing that she had caused such pain for him.

Clasping his hand to the wound Tom ran from the messy house. He stumbled a bit on the snow. Anger boiled in the small sixteen year old. He knew he should go to a hospital or a friend's house, but the idea of them finding out about the hell he lived in scared him. So instead he tore the fabric of his dark skull t-shirt and tied it about the large wound his mother had inflicted.

Warm tears slipped from his eyes as he sat on a bench in the dark. He didn't know he was crying. He didn't know he was. He just stopped. Everything just stopped. What little of the world he could see turned grey. The sounds were like someone had turned the volume down on the world. The pain in his shoulder stopped. He was slow. He was numb. It was a different kind of numb to the numb of depression. That numb blocked emotion, but not pain, if anything pain got worse, he just couldn't care.

No. This numb blocked everything. This numb blocked thoughts, it blocked hurt, it blocked everything. It blocked reality. Tom liked this numb. It was a more extreme numb than was gifted by alcohol.

Tom didn't know how long he sat on the bench. Tom didn't know much really. But after a while he began to return. The biting cold forcing him to curl under the bench and sleep. Part of his brain knew this was an absolutely awful idea, but he just couldn't care. He was tired and hurt and numb. Sleep would help.

When he woke up Tom blinked. The sun glittered off the snow, footsteps showed the paths of people living their own lives. He stumbled out from under the bench, stretching his sore muscles. He let out a cry of pain as he moved his left arm. Blood had stained his blue hoodie and the snow around where he slept.

Tom decided to head back to his personal hell. It didn't matter to him that it was Christmas. He didn't celebrate it.

His footsteps crunched the snow as he trudged back to his house, his wounded arm held close to his body. He knew he probably looked both high and hungover, but he didn't care. All he wanted was to be warm.

Opening the front door and entering the dark hallway, kicking aside a binbag of empty alcohol, Tom made his way into the house. Then up the stairs.

He turned a corner and entered the bathroom. The stench of blood hit him immediately. Tom looked into the tub and there he saw her. His mother laying slumped in the bath, her wrists slit and a knife, the same one she had attacked Tom with, on the floor, covered in blood. Next to the bath was a note. Tom took it and read it with shaky hands.

The note read:
"Thomas. You're worthless and should be dead. You have no reason here. I failed ridding the world of you. And it was my last mistake. Bastard."

Tom read this many times, each time understanding more of the message. He then put the note down and left the house. Oddly calm. He made his way through the snowy streets and found himself outside the neat house of his friend, Edd.

Taking a deep breath Tom knocked on the door, waiting for an answer.

Edd's mother, a lovely woman who looked so much like her son, answered. "Yes, who is i-" She froze when she saw Tom, a gasp leaving her lips. "Tom? Are you? No you're not. Come on in." She ushered the boy into her warm house. Straight into the main room.

Tom just stood there, looking like a mess. His hands were bloody, his face pale. Dark circles were under his eyes, making them look even darker. Blood stained the fabric of his hoodie, spreading slowly. He blinked.

Edd stood up, dropping whatever he had been holding. "Tom! You look halfway to death! What happened?" At those kind words the tears started. They fell from the poor boys eyes, staining his face. Loud sobs poured from his mouth. It was the first time he had properly cried in years.

Edd grabbed a first-aid kit and ushered Tom to sit down. The broken Brit did do. Edd helped ease Tom's hoodie from his poor battered body. Once it was off Edd gently removed Tom's t-shirt, glancing at the scars the litered the smaller Brit's torso. Edd began to unwrap the makeshift bandage from Tom's shoulder, letting out an audible gasp as he saw the wound.

Edd began to gently sterilise Tom's latest wound, whispering comforting noises to the obviously distressed Brit. Once Tom's wound was clean Edd bandaged it.

When it was done Edd helped Tom up and guided him to his room. He sat Tom on his bed and turned around, finding a large green hoodie, just a bit too small for him. He passed it to Tom, who gladly pulled the soft fabric over his head. He looked so young in the over large hoodie.

Then Edd spoke. "What happened?" His question was soft.

"She's dead."

A hand was placed on Tom's shoulder, snapping him back to reality. Tord was stood in front of him. The Norwegian's eyebrows contorted in concern. "Are you alright Tom? You've been sat like that for a while now."

Tom nodded. "Yeah. Just... Remembering some rather unpleasant stuff."

"Is it that?" Tord's blunt question had answered itself, but Tom still nodded. "I get it. Honestly. But are you sure you don't need to see a professional? Your PTSD has been getting worse since you stopped drinking so much." Tord sat next to his boyfriend, placing one arm over Tom's shoulders.

"I'll be fine Tord. How're the twins?" At three years old they hadn't wanted to sleep, but Tord had threatened to tell Santa that Christmas would be cancelled unless they went to sleep right away. That had scared them into going to sleep.

"Utterly out. Leif did wake up a bit when I left his present, but he's always been a light sleeper. And Inger is dead to the world." Tord chuckled.

"Remember that time Leif wondered in because he heard "scary noises" and all it was was Edd and Matt engaging in particular acts?" Tom smiled slightly.

"They were fucking Tom. Just say that. I'm just waiting for them to catch us." Tord nudged his boyfriend. "It's how I learnt about sex."

"And it won't be how they will. I can't imagine the scolding from Edd." Tom laughed.

"It would probably just be about protection. Even though he loves kids I don't think he wants us to have any more." Tord smiled as Tom rested his head on his shoulder.

"Yeah. He's probably jealous. Don't see why though, being pregnant sucks." Tom's tone was quiet and tired.

"I bet. Let's get some sleep. It's Christmas tomorrow." Tord smiled standing up to walk to his side of the bed.

"Alright. Night Tord. Love you." Tom lay down, pulling the blanket over him.

"Night Tom, love you too." Tord said as he too got into bed, pulling Tom closer to him.

"Daddy!"

"Pappa!"

"Wake uppy!"

Both men opened their eyes and yawned seeing the toddlers on their bed, inches from their faces.

"It's Christymas! Time to be uppy!" Inger cheered, clapping her hands excitedly.

"Pwesents!" Leif added on, smiling widely.

"Go wake up your uncles and we'll be there soon. Okay?" Tord said through a yawn.

Both toddlers nodded as they ran from the room. Tom laughed at their antics.

"We should be getting up. Gotta give them a good Christmas." Tord said with a sigh as he got out of bed, unintentionally throwing the blankets onto Tom. He turned to see Tom under a pile of blankets. "Get up, you lump."

"Only if I could Tord. But alas! The blankets have chosen me to join them, and who am I to deny their request? If I leave now I shall loose all trust I had gained with the blanket people and be cast out. Alone." Tom sighed dramatically. "So I must stay or end up wondering this earth, cold and with no blankets." He had lifted his head during his monologue, so when he finished he let it fall onto the pillows to complete the over-dramatic performance.

Tord laughed. "I'm sure they won't cast you out, get up now Tom. Or I'll not give you your present." Tord said the last part like it was a threat.

"You know I hate this day. I don't want a gift. It's not gonna get me up."

"More vodka for me then." Tord had his back to Tom as he said this. A smirk on his face.

A gasp came from the bed and then rustling blankets, then feet hitting the floor. "Well. Why not just say it was vodka?"

Tord chuckled and kissed Tom. Who kissed back. "It was supposed to be a secret" Tord said when they finally pulled apart. "You'll get the real present later." Tord winked at Tom as he left the room.

Tom felt himself blush as he headed after Tord and into their living room. The other four were already there, obviously waiting for Tom and Tord.

The day passed in a blur of colour for Tom. The twins spent the day playing with a train set that Tord had got them. Lunch was mostly chocolate and snacks. The evening meal was amazing. Edd's cooking near flawless. At about six they all settled down to watch "game tale 2" the Inger loved the film, though it had to be turned down because it was too loud.

Once the film was over Tom and Tord put the sleepy toddlers to bed and headed back down. When they were sure Edd and Matt had gone to bed the two men did so too.

"Are you sure you're okay Tommy?" Tord asked, concern in his tone.

"I'm sure Tord. She's dead." Tord responded into Tord's chest.

"She's dead."

A/N: Oh my. That was utterly exhausting to write. I wrote with no breaks from eight pm to one am because I'm apparently a fucking masochist.

I'm sorry if I triggered anyone by the discription of that one trauma, I thought it was important to the story to have Tom go through a flashback and describe that one type of flashback.

Also! This book may go on for a few more chapters than I expected, I got more ideas and don't want to let this book go just yet.

Also also! The 1111th word in this chapter (about 1000 words ago) was once. I just found that cool

Merry chrizmerderder, even if I don't like it and this comes out on the 24th. I hope you all have a good day, and if you're like me and don't like Christmas, or don't celebrate it, well, enjoy your day off work/school, unless you work that day.

(Also yes I am still avoiding an issue by writing. It is my coping method. Ignore the problem until it fucks off. It ain't healthy and I do not recommend it)

Hope you enjoy my one am stream of consciousness bullshit. Snow is just crunchy water. Ice is the best murder weapon. Sleep is a free trial of death but with dlc. I am not a pre-t transguy, I am an e-boy. That thought is cursed. Please euthinise me to stop shit like that from being typed out. Tamara says: we put nice clothes and smells on to attract someone to get gross and naked with. People are strange. I once tried to make wine by keeping grapes in a plastic pot. I fucking hate Christmas. Fuck. Why am I still writing? Goodbye.

One am fanfic is cancelled.